Get Your Motor Runnin'.... I Wish

If life is a highway, then mine is a parking lot with those tire shredders going both ways.... and no shade trees to park under.

I really should have known that my lifelong dance with automobiles was going to be less like a ballroom dance competition and more like an 80 year-old doing the Electric Slide.  Sort of scary to watch, scarier to participate in, but not without it's ability to make you laugh out loud.

Upon turning 16 I was given a sweet old car that had no floor on the driver's side. Instead it had a heavy duty plastic mat to keep feet and other items from falling through to the ground as you zipped along.  To add an element of adventure the ignition was known to suddenly stop gripping your keys and they'd fall to the floor. Yabba Dabba Doo.

Rumor has it that my uncle, it's previous owner, once actually lost his keys on the freeway.  Perhaps a myth, but still humorous to think about. 

Surprisingly my first ever encounter with a cop was driving that car.  My headlight was burnt out.  Really?  I'm kind of shocked, officer, but my bigger concern is a lack of floor.

I don't really know what happened to that car.  Time has a way of erasing the small details of life as you go along.  But it was replaced with a sweet action Cavalier station wagon similar to this.

Jealous much?

It had a nifty gear shifter with only four speeds.  I'm pretty sure my dad thought this would keep me safer as it topped out at like 55 when I was pushing it.  I, and my high school car pool buddies, thoroughly enjoyed the fake vinyl seating that you got sweat-stuck to in the summer and frozen to in the winter.

But all's fair to the high school student, and I wasn't too self conscious about my rides considering my friends weren't without their honorable mentions.  The "Gold Nugget" that had a gold hood while the rest of the car was silver.  My friend, WC, drove us to school in an old hearse he had. You can fit a lot of kids where the coffin should be, not the mention how many fit in the front seats.  It was "classy".  Another friend, TH, drove a family van that honked every time you turned left.  We loved it!  You could hear him coming through the parking lot every morning.  Honk....honk.... honk. 

Perhaps my favorite was the day that we came out of school one afternoon and Al's rear bumper had rusted off and was laying on the ground behind the car.  We all just kind of stared for a minute before starting to laugh.  She was totally matter-of-fact about it and without really cracking a smile she told the guys to put it in her trunk so she could take it home.  The next time she drove her bumper was back in place.

During college I graduated to a nice little Chevy Blazer.  This was the big time for me.  My first car with AC and power anything.  Also, it jumped the train tracks outside my summer job location like a champ.  I beat many a train in that little silver bullet. (Sorry Mom).

Mine was cuter

However, like my other rides, it wasn't without it's quirks.  If you turned left too fast the engine stalled.  Found that out the hard way.  Sometimes when turning left, at idle speed, the windshield wipers would turn on too.  The horn was ultra sensitive.  If you so much as batted your eyelashes in the direction of the center of the steering wheel that sucker was honking.  I honked at a lot of people for no reason, while turning left at idle speed, with my windshield wipers on... ha ha ha... 

I'm nothing if not friendly.

There were other cars, but the theme kind of stayed the same.  Quirks and problems.  Shaky steering wheels that could have churned butter, clutches I couldn't reach without a block, gear shift handles that fell off, windows that wouldn't roll down... or up, cars with broken four-wheel drive, radios that randomly changed channels.  The list goes on.

And then, the icing on the cake.  You know that saying, "Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me"?  Welcome to my experience with Ford.

We've owned two Ford vehicles during our marriage.  The first was sacrificed to the St. George gods a few years back and sold to a salvage yard.  The second had this happen....

One second Hubs is driving happily around and the next - BAM - the gear shift falls out.  Car was stuck between reverse and park.  Lovely. 

And we sold our second Ford to a salvage yard.

My kids saying farewell... and good riddance!

So, now we have yet another car sitting in our garage that it new to us.  And I can't help but wonder what kind of experience it's going to be.  Will it take us on adventures, never failing, always starting?  Or will it chug along like an old jalopy, keeping us on our toes, ever vigilant, watching our rear view mirror for parts falling out?

Only time will tell.  But based on our past experience I think I'll buy Hubs a bus pass for his birthday!

Karma

Dear Grandpa,
I would never have thought to blog about this if you hadn't told me not to.  Thanks for the tip.
Your ever-loving granddaughter,
Aspen

*******************************

This past week I've been lucky enough to have my Grandparents staying with me while they've been in town visiting with my brother.  They didn't stay there 'cause he's very ill... thus the visit. Also, I'm just more fun.  Plus, where else can they sleep on side by side twin beds - a total flashback to their favorite old sitcom couples? Also, it's great to be woken up by crying babies, to step on toys while going barefoot around the house, get hit in the head with toy swords and get hit by sprinklers while attempting a walk around the park. 

It just so happened that their first morning with us was J-Bear's birthday.  So they actually got a nice breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, bananas, chocolate milk and... grape jelly.  Yep.  I even whipped out the jelly for the occasion.


No sooner had we sat down to eat then Grandpa - while attempting to assist J-Bear with chocolate milk mixing - spilled his entire glass of chocolate milk all over my wishes-it-were-pristine kitchen floor.  Oh man.  Grandma and I just started laughing while Grandpa apologized and got to cleaning it up. My kids don't ever know if they can laugh about spills or not, so they were pretty quiet at first.

To those sympathetic to the geriatric set who are wondering why I made my poor old Grandpa clean up his own mess, I will tell you that my only reason is because it was funny.  And I was holding a baby.

As Grandpa scrubbed with a towel he laughed about how that was exactly why my uncle jokingly bought him a sippy cup to use when dining with them.  Ha ha ha.  Love it.  I'm tucking away that info for their next visit!

Anyhow, throughout the day I did my best to resurrect his embarrassment.  I told my family about his spill.  I suggested he leave a $5 bill on the kitchen counter before leaving as I'm not made of money.  I even told him that the next morning at breakfast I'd just pour his milk directly on the floor and cut out the middle part.

All in good fun I assure you.  Who do you think taught me how to tease?

So, later that night I'm out to dinner with just my little family for J-Bear's birthday.   And disaster struck.  Karma came right around like a boomerang doing 1000 mph and slapped me sideways.  That's right, I think you can guess what happened. 

I spilled an entire drink on the floor of the restaurant.

Sure, it was McDonald's, but hey, it was my just desserts.

I'm sure I blushed a little as I sought out an employee to ask for rags and then even more when they insisted they'd clean it up and my family had to stand next to our table  - out of their way - while they mopped.  I'm pretty sure no one else in the place even noticed what was happening (sarcasm).

Of course, in my quest to be honest and laugh at myself I told my Grandma about it at J-Bear's birthday party later. 

And that snitch ran straight to Grandpa with the story.  I see where her loyalties are!

Oh, ho, ho was Grandpa thrilled with this latest development.  He repeated my steps of persecution by telling my entire family and saying something sassy about how at least his wasn't in public.  I'm pretty sure he offered to purchase me a sippy cup.

Touche Grandpa, Touche!

So, folks, I guess I believe that Karma is real.  It has to be.  After all, if my Grandpa hadn't been such a sassafrass his entire life then Karma wouldn't have given him a sassy pants granddaughter like me :)

Runny Diarrhea

Admit it, the title of this post grabbed your attention!  You're wondering just where I'm going to go with that.  Will you be disgusted, will you laugh?  You find yourself intrigued.

And you should be.

Today you are going to learn something new.  And someday, down the road, you're going to thank me.

I am here to share a nugget of wisdom with you today.  The Hubs suggested I give you the background on this.  So, here goes.  Several years ago, back when I was employed outside the home, I worked for a great guy.  His initials are BG.  BG was in management and a victim of an overabundance of meetings.  One day he was in his office with a group of us discussing something that I'm sure was totally work related when his scheduler popped up reminding him about a meeting he had in 5 minutes.  He didn't want to go.  He grumbled about it for a moment as he stood and began gathering his things.  One of the guys in the office suggested a fool proof way of getting out of the meeting.

"I'll give you 20 bucks if you stand up during the meeting, say 'I've got runny diarrhea' and walk out".

Of course BG didn't do this.  He cared about having a job.  But, we all laughed and it kind of became the running joke (Oh, ho, ho, no pun intended!) around the office when we wanted to get out of something.

This excuse is full proof.  

I'll give you some examples below.

Late for something?  "I'm sorry I was late.  I was suddenly gripped by an episode of runny diarrhea."  Oh, well then, no worries.

Meeting you don't want to attend?  "I'm so sorry, I don't think I'm going to make it.  I seem to be experiencing runny diarrhea."  Oh, well, we'll have someone email you the meeting minutes. 

Meeting going long?  Simply stand up, walk funny and stage whisper "I gotta run.  Runny diarrhea" as you shuffle out of the room.

Family gathering making you squeamish? Relative playing the Me Monster game? Boring conversation sucking out your soul?  "Oh, my, I seem to be..." stand up and grab your belly, "Oh, I think I'm about to have runny diarrhea".  Feel free to break those social bands and walk away.

Trust me, no one on earth is going to stop you from leaving or encourage you to come.

Why does this work?  Three reasons:

(1)  'Cause everyone has been there.  Sadly we all totally relate to it and we know that there's nothing to be done when your colon is in the steel jaws of irritation. 

(2) No one wants to see you embarrass yourself by trying to "muscle through it".  It's best to just stay away.  Far, far away.

(3) Runny Diarrhea can be contagious.  They don't know if it's simply something you ate, or if you're going to inadvertently bring the human race to it's knees.  They don't want any part of it.

Now, I do realize that for the gentle souls out there, this may be problematic because you fear coming off as crude.  May I suggest a few synonyms that call alleviate your embarrassment.

"Pardon me, but I seem to be experiencing wet wind in the channels"

"Excuse me, but the brown steam engine is trying to jump the track"

"Wow, I seem to have the hot trots today"

People will get the picture.  And those who don't follow will be too self conscious to ask.  Be creative.  Get those juices flowing (Oh, ha ha, another pun.  Oh my!)

So, there you have it.  The excuse to top them all.

Now I send you out into the world packed with knowledge.  May you enjoy the fruits of it for years to come!

What Doesn't Kill You...

The other day while rocking out to a Kelly Clarkson song with The Hubs we realized that we take exception to the phrase "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger".

What a bunch of left-over processed meat.  (Bologna)

I had to use this picture because it's both disturbing and
something you can't stop looking at.... like my blog

Everyone has heard that phrase about a million times throughout their lives.  It's kind of the catchall when someone doesn't know what to say to you during trying times.  Or, in my family, it's the thing we say to each other as a joke during vent sessions. 

For example one of us will say something like, "Hey, I'm pretty sure that neither my house nor my body will survive raising four kids, this kind of stinks sometimes"  (this is my sister talking to me, 'cause I obviously never, ever, ever share that sentiment). To which the other will reply, "Well, you know what they say...." and then in unison "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."  Then we laugh.

Yes, this is actually me.  Really.  I mean it. 
Underneath the fat, eye circles and frizzy hair, this is what I look like.

Why do we laugh?  In this rare instance it's not because we think we're hilarious (which is typically why we laugh), but it's because we know that it is the most ridiculous phrase ever.

Sure, we get what it means.  It means that if you can live through ___________, you'll come away stronger and more refined.  In a spiritual, emotional, eternal sense of things.

Phooey and Pa-Lease.

What about the physical, current sense of things?  Huh?  Did anyone stop to think about that?

So, Hubs and I decided to rephrase the phrase.  We now are fond of saying to each other, "Well, what doesn't kill you makes you suffer".... 'cause that's more accurate.

We're thinking of having t-shirts made. 

Also, I think it's much funnier than the wise old adage.  And it's kind of brutally honest.  Which brings me back to my original point - its funny.

Sometimes there is nothing that is going to make ____________ any better.  Sometimes __________ just plain stinks.  And when some helpful person comes along throwing the "stronger" business at you it just feels like someone taking sandpaper and rubbing it all over your raw emotions.  It's kind of like saying that what you're going through right now doesn't really matter in the long run.

But, it does.  Because we are made up of what we've gone through.

And if you're alive enough to not be dead (try to figure that out), then you're clearly suffering.  You're definitely not sipping an Italian cream soda and thinking about how much stronger you're getting.  Honestly.

So, feel free to join Hubs and I in the revolution.  Embrace the suffering you're enduring, quickly, before it's over and you accidentally find yourself having grown stronger.

Oh, yes, and order a t-shirt.

Disclaimer:  As with all things, this post should be taken very lightly.  Please don't call me to see if I'm okay.   However, do feel free to stop by with chocolate.

Blue Chair Musings

The other day while I was feeding Jasec in his room, Joel climbed into my lap and sat on my free leg.  Neither of us said anything.  It was quiet and peaceful as I rocked, the only sounds were Jasec sucking on his bottle and the rhythmic squeak of the chair.  Joel laid his head on my shoulder and snuggled in.

And I started thinking about all the hours I've spent sitting in that chair, rocking, listening to the squeaky hinges and sounds of children.

I can never sell this chair.

Actual Sweet Blue Chair

This chair carries with it the residue of many, many memories.

It started it's life as part of a set belonging to my grandparents in Arizona.  Those two chairs were handed down to my parents, and eventually split between my brother and I.

My brother survived his first cancer and chemo in his chair.

I survived my foray into motherhood.

We both went through trials and struggles that made us stronger while held in the lap of our blue chair. 

As for my chair, it's had it's fair share of formula spilled, drool wiped and probably even some wet diapers on it's fabric.  It's handled it all.

It's been witness to countless prayers and whispered dreams.  To dark star-filled nights when tears were shed and I wondered if I'd ever make it through, when I felt the full weight of my new role.

It's stood guardian through nights when both baby and I would fall asleep in it's arms.  It patiently held us as the hours ticked by.

It's heard hundreds of stories being read and been the stern sentinel when timeouts were needed.

And all through those endless days and nights of babyhood and toddlerdom it has refused to stop squeaking!

For a few years after Joel was born I would look at that chair as I walked by the room and wonder when we would no longer need a chair like that in a child's bedroom.

But, luckily, just when I thought we'd outgrown it, we were given another chance.  A surprise baby.  I just bet that chair was as happy as I was for the chance to have just one more...

One more season of rocking, rocking, rocking.

One more season of snuggles in the dark.

One more season of story time.

One more season of baby giggles and the soft sounds of feeding.

Some day you may come to my house and see that ratty old blue chair sitting there.  And you will wonder why on earth someone would keep such an out of date, out of style, squeaky and threadbare chair in their home.

And maybe, if you have children, all I'd have to say is that I rocked my babies in that chair.  And letting it go would be like accepting that my children will never need to be rocked again.  Accepting that my children can now read their own stories and are getting too big for my lap.

So, I leave it there.  In hopes that they'll stay little for a bit longer.  And we'll find ourselves on a quiet afternoon, nothing but that endless squeaking, making just one more memory.

Ironing out the Confusion

This was too funny not to share.

It's really no secret that I don't iron.  At all.  And, as opposed to other occasions, this time I'm not exaggerating.  In fact within in the past year I've been asked by my children, upon seeing an iron hanging next to the washer, just what that thing on the wall is.  Yep.  I do not iron.  At all.  Ever.

This past week I bought some new drape-y, curtain-y things for the living room.  I decided they needed to be ironed before hanging them up.  So, I got out the ironing board and set it up in the family room.  All the horrific squeaking drew in the crowd.  What was that unfamiliar noise? 

Next I brought out the iron and literally dusted it off.  Not just using that old cliche.  I really did have to dust off the iron before I could use it.

As the iron was heating up my children were silent in rapt attention.  What would come next?  What was Mom doing with that newfangled device?

I got the drapes and began to iron.  Here is how the conversation went from there.

Els:  So, I've seen one of those things somewhere before (pointing to the ironing board while pausing to think about why it looked so familiar to her).  Oh, I know, Grandma has one in her laundry room.
Me:  Yep.  You're right.
Cadie:  What would you call one of those things?  (She pats the ironing board).  It's kind of shaped like a surfboard.
Me:  It's called an ironing board.
Cadie:  Is that thing hot?  (Pointing to the iron)
Me:  Yes, very hot.  You can't touch it.
Cadie:  So, it's like an oven or something?
Me:  Yes.
Cadie: What do you do with it? Use it to straighten things and make those lines go out of it?
Me: Yes.  It's called ironing and lots of people do it.
Els:  Why don't you ever do it?
Me:  'Cause I hate ironing and I don't have to.

*Insert:  That's right.  After all those years of forced ironing, and guilt induced ironing, I have freed myself.  I don't have to.  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!  It's SO GOOD to be the Mom sometimes.  I.  Do. Not.  Have. To. Iron!!!!

Back to the conversation....

Cadie:  Do other people iron?

Els... wait for it, wait for it....: Cadie, irons are for poor people who can't afford washing machines to make their clothes flat for them.

Oh, yeah.  I about died laughing.  So classic.  My daughter thinks that we don't need an iron because our washing machine just magically makes our clothing flat.  And, better yet, irons are for poor people.  Lovely.

When I got myself under control:

Me:  That's not true sweetheart.  Lots of people iron.  Grammy irons, Grandma irons...
Cadie:  Oh, so ironing is just for old people then?

Ha ha.  Will it never stop.  This is so fantastic.

Me:  No, it's not just for old people.  Auntie Em (my sister) irons things.  And I bet Aunt Dawnie (sis-in-law) probably irons her clothes.  (At this point I'm scrambling because I don't really know if anyone of my generation, other than my sister Emily, actually irons).  Lots of people who go to work and need to wear nice clothes will iron.

Pause for thoughtful processing of all the information.

Els:  So, you just don't iron 'cause you don't like to?

Me:  Yep.  That's right.  I just don't like to.  But, it's really something you should know how to do.  So, don't worry, someday I'll teach you how to hate ironing too.

Hairy Ramblings

The other day my brother told me he's starting to lose his hair from the chemo.

Not His Head

While I want to feel bad for him, I'm mostly jealous.

In all fairness there are some other nasty side affects of chemo that he's dealing with, but I can't say that I'd be too bummed about hair loss. 

No 15 minutes in the shower working shampoo and conditioner through this massive hairy beast on my head.

No shaving and cutting and deodorant stings.

No tweezing.

No mascara.

A little over 6 years ago when I was pregnant with Cadie Lu I had some random allergic reaction to some eye drops (yep, pretty sure I got pink eye, because I live with little petrie dishes).  It made all my eyelashes fall out.  At first I was a little embarrassed to be going around with no make-up on.  But I got over it pretty quickly.  It takes 6-8 weeks for eyelashes to grow back and those were the most carefree days of my life since begging my mom to let me wear mascara.

*Note:  Ironic that we beg for something that will then make us it's slave for the next 70 years.

It was lovely to not have to worry about make-up for those two months.  See, you cannot wear eyeshadow with no mascara.  You don't put on just blush.  I'm sure people already wonder if I'm a circus performer and I didn't need to put on clown make-up and prove their point.

My face was fresh scrubbed.

So, now I'm listening to my brother say how his hair has fallen out and I'm thinking that if I felt so carefree about missing eyelashes, that missing leg hair, armpit hair, chin hair, mustache hair, and toe hair would throw me into a state of pure rapture.  (I just want you to know I listed some hair that I don't actually battle with to that list in order to round it out a bit.  I'll let you guess which are fake.... or are they?)

The thing is, his hair will grow back in a few months when this process is over.

What a bum deal.

He said he misses his facial hair the most.  He can grow a pretty groovy goatee.

Funny.  I'd miss my facial hair the least.

I guess it's really all about perspective.  Those who want hair are loosing it and those who are supposed to be hairless and smooth are trying not to too closely resemble Chewbacca.

Oh well.  I'll try to accept that my hair is gonna keep on trucking along.

And as long as he lets me rub his head I'll do my best to not let my jealousy chip away at my lovely sibling relationship.